Writers’ Spaces is a series that reviews — you guessed it — spaces for writers. Whether writing is your lifeblood or you got stuck in Intro to Fiction, check out the best (and worst) places to practice your craft.

It was the leopard print couches that caught my eye at first. They sit right by the window, with an unobstructed view of the street, just begging the people-watchers to plop down and enjoy the view. Granted, the most interesting thing about the particular corner Cafe Mozart sits on — Davis and Chicago — is that the traffic lights weirdly go through a cycle of three iterations, even though it’s a four-way intersection, and watching the uninitiated trying to jaywalk provides an adequate level of schadenfreude. It’s a very boring corner.

But for three years of my time at Northwestern, I only walked past that corner and those couches, never considering that the place might be worth a visit. Unlike the other coffee places in Evanston, Cafe Mozart didn’t come with its own set of Northwestern student baggage (tellingly, I have to keep referring to the picture of the place to know if I’ve even got the order of the name right). Ambrosia, Kaffein, Unicorn and even Starbucks, now those are household names, places so steeped in the zeitgeist that you could drop the “cafe” and “coffee” from their names and no one would think you were talking about a Classical composer.

But there was poor, pathetic, sad Cafe Mozart. Why had the Northwestern caffeine-addled hipster masses not given it the love it might secretly deserve?

It turns out, the place has earned the right to be ignored.

Before I arrived for my test writing session, I knew two things about Cafe Mozart: The name reeks of pretentiousness and the decor, at least from the street view, makes you feel guilty for ever having enjoyed 1980s kitsch.

I was determined to find a redeeming quality, so I walked in, went straight to the counter and had an uncomfortable 15 second staring contest with the only person working there. I looked at him expecting a friendly greeting; he looked at me expecting an order.

Once I named my tea choice, he looked up on the board to make sure I wasn’t making it up (Georgia Sunshine). He would look at the board for every subsequent order from other customers. The whole affair, from the bare minimum presentation of obviously pre-made pastries to the unknowledgeable employee, cemented my impression that service was only an incidental, unfortunate byproduct of running a café here. He delivered my tea to the counter, then disappeared.

Photo by the author.

I sat with my admittedly delicious tea, ready to write. With only the unobtrusive background styling of Mozart (and probably Beethoven and Bach, as the music was a Classical radio station), it was almost too quiet. Most of the patrons were alone, working, but instead of feeling like I was among people, I felt like I was alone, working, about as interested as I’d be if I were at a desk in some hidden crevice of the University Library. I wondered why I’d ever left my own room for this.

At 3 p.m. on a Wednesday, the place was nearly empty. There was an old couple, a middle aged professional typing away at what must’ve been a really important presentation given the undivided attention he was giving his computer and two women of indeterminate age chatting about their book club. Between then and 6:30 p.m., two graduate students worked on a group project, a gentleman in his mid-20s complained about his lack of job prospects (I hear ya) and two seniors ate ice cream in silence.

I had just finished reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius that morning and it had me inspired. Borrowing Eggers’s formula, I would write my own memoir that would be ruthless in its depictions — though always truthful — and ultimately inspire the next generation of the self-aware and self-indulgent. Although I was upset at Eggers for having had a life more tragic and writing more beautiful and thoughts like mine but more profound, I knew that no one who’d never written a word has ever won the Pulitzer and it was unlikely I would start that trend.

But successful memoirs draw their energy from interesting moments. It was very hard to have an interesting thought in Cafe Mozart. Attempting to be postmodern and indulgent was impossible in such a staid environment. Even the others working in the cafe seemed to be chugging along on a chore. The austerity of the place was decidedly unfriendly to inspiring the kind of unrestrained dumping of emotion on paper necessary for my project. This was a serious place, but my life would surely never make for a very serious memoir.

I got nothing from my time there. I wrote a few sentences, then looking up, just felt sad for the place. There was a picture of Mozart hanging above a couch and another painted on the wall. The music was of the right era and the deep red, melodramatic and ornate curtains hearkened back to a decorating aesthetic more classical. But beyond that, it was merely a good thesis with no evidence to back it up.

The place has the potential to be a gathering place for tortured artistic souls slaving away on their masterpieces, but until somebody takes ownership in the Mozart theme, it’s going to be a dull cafe with acceptable tea.

Details:
600 Davis St # 1
Evanston, IL 60201
847-492-8056

Hours:
Weekdays 7:30 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Saturdays 9 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.
Sundays 9 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.

Grades:
Menu: B
Tea: B+
Ambiance: C
Accessibility: A
Overall: C+